The Exploits of Psmith and Mike
by BasicallyRun
Summary: Fandom: Mike and Psmith by PG Wodehouse. A nighttime expedition leads to revelations and Shakespeare. Slash.


"The exploits of Psmith and Jackson – or Jackson and Psmith if you'd prefer – shall be sung of in years hence," murmured Psmith in Mike's ear.

Mike begged to differ. "Fat lot of singing they'll do if we end up in the soup," he hissed.

"Your lack of faith in me is really most distressing, Comrade Jackson." Making a reproachful face that was entirely lost in the darkness of the study, Psmith slid over to Downing's desk. To Mike, not usually given to flights of fancy, the desk seemed to be loitering with a definite intent. Which, he reflected miserably, was not so far from what he and Psmith were doing.

"For Heaven's sake, get a move on! If anyone hears… Downing already has it in for us!"

"Yes," replied Psmith with a preoccupied air as he fiddled carefully with a locked drawer. "I have noticed Comrade Downing's less than cordial approach to our good selves. It seems to me to suggest a regrettable lack of good taste on his behalf. Quite why he fails to appreciate our undeniably winsome characters is beyond me, but there you have it."

Mike wondered fondly what circumstances would halt the flow of words from his companion's mouth. Certainly not the threat of expulsion and public shame, he decided. As he proceeded with his delicate task, Psmith kept up a steady stream of whispered small talk that touched on everything from the weather (fortunately overcast that night) to where to obtain the best lock picks (a small shop on Portsoken Street, apparently).

Though able to face hordes of ravening bowlers with equanimity, Mike simply could not share Psmith's careless attitude to the law. However, what he lacked in criminal tendencies, he more than made up for in steadfast loyalty and that was how he had found himself, on a Wednesday night when all sensible folk were in bed, attempting to steal exam papers from Mr. Downing's study.

"Hah!" exclaimed Psmith with satisfaction as the drawer slid slowly out. He began to remove bundles of paper from it. "This is practical Socialism indeed!"

"I'm not so sure the Head will look on it like that," retorted Mike. "Which papers are we meant to be getting?"

"Oh let's have the whole lot, I think. I do deplore stinginess in a man."

Hopping nimbly out the open window through which they had entered, Psmith and Mike made their leisurely way back to Outwood's, the spoils of war clasped in their arms.

Freed from the confines of the study, Psmith blossomed like an elegant flower. His gestures grew more expansive and his conversation leapt nimbly from topic to topic like a gazelle. Mike was, as ever, content to listen and contribute the occasional mumble of agreement.

As they approached the house, however, he was surprised to find himself seized in a tackle any rugby player would have envied. With a grunt, he tumbled backwards into a bush. Psmith landed somewhat heavily on top.

"What the devil do you think you're doing?"

"Certainly not what you seem to think I am," whispered Psmith, for Mike's arms had somehow found their way round Psmith's waist too. "I espied the form of our esteemed housemaster in yonder window and thought it prudent to effect concealment."

"Ah. Right," mumbled Mike in embarrassment. He mentally upbraided himself for even considering the possibility that Psmith would attempt to take advantage of him in a bush. Not that he would… No. That thought needed stopping right there. Even if you did hear tales of what happened at Eton, Psmith was a friend. Mike shook his head vigorously, attempting to clear his thoughts.

"Are you all right?" inquired Psmith, solicitously.

"Fine." But he made no attempt to disentangle himself and could not help noticing that Psmith was similarly unmoving. To avoid getting spotted, he told himself sternly.

"This has landed us in something of a sticky situation, wouldn't you agree, Comrade Jackson? We find the guard not sleeping, but alert and watchful. One asks oneself what Caesar would have done in such circumstances."

Mike managed an eloquent grunt.

"Can you see what Outwood's doing?" asked Psmith.

"Not really. You're on top of me, you see," said Mike apologetically.

"Oh yes, so I am. Well, if you'll consent to release me from your tender embrace, I'll go scout out the land ahead. You stay here and guard the loot."

With stealthy tread, he proceeded across the lawn to the window, leaving Mike with just his thoughts for company. The main trouble, Mike pondered, was that you could never be sure what Psmith was thinking. He had seemed to take the whole tender-embrace-in-a-bush thing in his stride, but maybe that was all an act? Or perhaps he simply didn't care what Mike thought of him? Mike sighed as noiselessly as possible, then started as he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Psmith.

"Our favourite Archaeology master appears to be deeply engrossed in a book on Etruscan temples. Unfortunately, this does not have the same effect on him as it would on a lesser being; far from succumbing to its soporific influence, his eyes burn with a strange light and all in all, he appears something of a scaly opponent."

"And those stairs up to the dorms creak dreadfully," groaned Mike.

"There is great truth in your words. I am of the opinion that we shall have to utilise something of a distraction technique. My plan is as follows: You gather all these sundry articles together and nip in through that window at the back. I, meanwhile, will use my hitherto understated powers as a thespian to stage a distraction out front. You pop up the stairs under cover of my distraction and thus to bed. Tu comprends?"

"But I say, that leaves you stuck in things rather, doesn't it?"

"Not a problem," said Psmith with confidence. "You have not yet witnessed Psmith's Patented Solution. Guaranteed to knock spots off all competitors or your money back."

"If you're sure…" Mike said with some reluctance. Something within him rebelled at abandoning his friend to fend for himself, though if anyone could talk their way out of a situation, it was certainly Psmith.

"Positive. Now go, and we'll meet again at Philippi."

With some difficulty, Mike extricated himself from the bush, gathered up the scattered pieces of paper and made his way round the side of the house in an awkward, hunched run the somehow contrived to be twice as obvious as simply walking.

He had rounded the corner before he heard the start of Psmith's distraction.

"Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears!

I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him…"

He froze in horror. What was Psmith thinking? Mike had half a mind to rush back and drag him away, but it was too late now. Psmith's fine, declamatory voice did its work well. Soon enough, Mike could hear the front door opening and dorm windows being pushed up the better to get a glimpse of this addition to the evening's entertainment.

He supposed that the best thing to do would be to make the most of Psmith's gallant sacrifice and indeed, amid all the excited chatter that had started up, no one noticed his return to the dormitory except for Jellicoe, long since sworn to secrecy.

"I say!" exclaimed this lad, as Mike hastily shoved his sheaf of papers under the mattress. "I say, is that Smith out there? He'll catch it if he's not careful."

"I know," sighed Mike, collapsing on his bed.

Meanwhile, watched by the gawping denizens of Outwood's, Psmith was giving the performance of his life.

"To be or not to be, that is the question.

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer

The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune…"

"Smith! What on earth do you think you're doing, boy? Waking everyone up like this?"

"…To sleep, perchance to dream. Ay, there's the rub,

For in that sleep of death what dreams may come…"

Mr. Outwood was a kindly soul who did not deserve this. He hurried over to Psmith and shook him by the shoulder.

"Come on, lad. Get a grip!"

A voice from above called to him. "Sir, I think he's sleep walking, sir. You're not supposed to wake them up or their brains explode, sir."

At that moment, Matron emerged from the house. With a stride like an avenging angel, she marched up to Psmith and tipped a pitcher of water over him. Clearly it was no use pretending to sleep any longer. With a convincing splutter, he opened his eyes and affected a look of innocent surprise to find himself the centre of attention.

"My best pyjamas, Matron! Was it really necessary to ruin them?" he asked mournfully.

"I'm afraid so," she said briskly. "You were sleep walking."

Psmith passed a hand over his brow. "So, it has come out at last," he murmured regretfully. "This stain on my otherwise unblemished character has at last found itself exposed to the bright light of day. Or rather," he added thoughtfully, "the dim light of the moon."

"You mean to say you've been doing this for some time?" asked Mr. Outwood.

"Oh yes. It really is a most tragic tale. But – not to seem forward – but might I tell it in your study? There is a cruel breeze that has intentions on my health."

"Of course, of course," replied Mr. Outwood, baffled. "Come in, Smith, come in."

With a light step, Psmith followed him inside. Barely giving Mr. Outwood time to sit down, and with a cheerful disregard for the puddle he was leaving on the housemaster's good upholstery, he launched into a story that seemed to involve almost nightly near-catastrophes as his sleep walking took him perilously close to fishponds or led him, key in hand, to his father's gun cabinet.

When he had finished, Mr. Outwood shook his head in a sympathetic manner. "It really surpasses all belief that we have never noticed this before. The Headmaster must be informed of course, but I wonder if there's anything more we can do."

"It is entirely through the offices of my good friends Jackson and Jellicoe that I have evaded detection for this long, sir. Had they not prevented me from leaving the dorm, sometimes wrestling me bodily back to bed, I feel sure that this grave fault of mine would have become known at once. They are heroes amongst men, sir," finished Psmith, gravely.

"Right. Excellent. Well, I can only think that in future we should lock the dormitory door."

"A sage suggestion."

"If there's nothing else, I suppose you should be going to bed, Smith. I take it you have a spare pair of pyjamas?"

"Yes, sir. Though these _were_ my favourite. No matter. The cry goes up, 'Psmith is disheartened, but he is not lost yet!' I shall soldier on in the face of adversity. Good night, Mr. Outwood."

"Oh, er, good night, Smith."

Jellicoe, never one to forego his eight hours, was already slumbering peacefully when Psmith returned. It being past four in the morning when peace returned to Outwood's, Psmith and Mike saw little sense in chasing Morpheus. Now clad in fresh pyjamas (Mike had kept his face resolutely to the wall as Psmith changed), they sat on Psmith's bed, leaning back against the wall.

Mike was the first to break the companionable silence. "You scared the life out of me back there."

"Hmm?"

"That silly stunt of yours on the lawn."

"Oh yes, I was rather pleased with that. I have long nursed a passion to try my hand at acting and the Bard has always spoken to my soul."

"Well you were jolly lucky they didn't decide to pack you off to Colney Hatch or somewhere. And when on earth did you learn all those speeches?"

"Mere trifles. I had very nearly reached the end of my repertoire when Matron decided to give me a bath. A few more minutes and I'd have been reduced to _Romeo and Juliet_ and a pretty fool I'd have looked then. 'Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou?'" He spoke in a high-pitched, fluting voice that made Mike choke with laughter.

"No but seriously, it was jolly decent of you to risk getting sacked for me," Mike said once the merriment had subsided. Words did not come easily to him, but the thing needed saying. "Although I don't know that I could stick it here if they sent you down."

"Would this have anything to do with our sojourn in the bush?" murmured Psmith.

Mike felt his face grow uncomfortably hot. He suddenly became aware of how close they were sitting, arms separated by only an inch of air and pyjamas. "Well I – I really -"

"Don't tell me Wrykyn is so shamefully behind Eton in these matters?" Psmith persisted playfully. He shifted on the bed and one of his bare feet brushed Mike's.

"I don't know. I always focused on the cricket, you see. I mean, there were rumours… Oh."

Psmith had leaned over and kissed Mike gently on the nose. A swift blow to the head with a cosh would have made less of an impression on the ex-Wrykynian. He looked at Psmith, still poised over him with an expression of mild concern, and tried not to blink, certain that the image would fade.

"Mmpf," was his initial response, swiftly followed by, "What? Why?"

Taking it upon himself to sustain the intellectual tone of the conversation, Psmith said, "Because from the moment our eyes met across a crowded room – no, I tell a lie, it was in a near-deserted one, but the point stands – from the moment our eyes met, it was as deep calling to deep. And you would insist on sporting a look reminiscent of the more attractive Greek Gods. Speaking of which, those pyjamas are frankly indecently well cut."

Mike let out a shaky breath. "Thanks. You don't look so bad yourself." He flushed a delicate magenta at the clumsy compliment.

Psmith continued, completely unabashed, "Has anyone told you how irresistible you look when you blush, Comrade Jackson? I shall have to see if I can't make it happen more often."

Hands on his shoulders gently pushed Mike down to lie flat on the bed.

"What about Jellicoe?" he managed to gasp, as Psmith attempted to wriggle on top of him. Their movements were hampered somewhat by the narrowness of the bed, but this did not seem to dampen Psmith's enthusiasm for his task.

"Comrade Jellicoe believes firmly in the idea of beauty sleep. He considers it dangerous in the extreme to forego even one precious second of slumber and as such, will surely not awaken. If we're very, very quiet." He punctuated the last sentence with kisses sprinkled unevenly over Mike's face and neck.

Mike smiled. "Are you ever quiet?" he asked.

"That depends entirely on the available alternatives."

Some seconds later – or it might have been minutes, but nobody was counting – Mike broke the kiss, silently cursing the irritating need to breathe.

"That was a very satisfactory alternative," whispered Psmith in his ear.


End file.
